UC-NRLF 


THE    TOWN    DOWN 
THE    RIVER  /-fe 


A  BOOK  OF  POEMS 


BY 

EDWIN  ARLINGTON  ROBINSON 


NEW  YORK 

CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 
1910 


COPYRIGHT,  1910,  BY 
CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 

Published  September,  1910 


TO 
THEODORE  ROOSEVELT 


281714 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 


THE;  MASTER i 

(JHE  TOWN  DOWN  THE  RIVER  ....  9 

AN  ISLAND 23 

CALVERLY'S— 

CALVERLY'S .  41 

LEFFINGWELL — 

I.  THE  LURE 44 

II.  THE  QUICKSTEP 46 

III.  REQUIESCAT 48 

CLAVERING 50 

LlNGARD  AND  THE  STARS 54 

MISCELLANEOUS— 

PASA  THALASSA  THALASSA 59 

MOMUS 64 

UNCLE  ANANIAS 66 

THE  WHIP  68 


PAGE 

THE  WHITE  LIGHTS 71 

EXIT 73 

*-  NORMANDY 74 

LEONORA 76 

THE  WISE  BROTHERS 78 

BUT  FOR  THE  GRACE  OF  GOD 80 

^-  Au  REVOIR 83 

FOR  ARVIA 85 

THE  SUNKEN  CROWN  ........  87 

DOCTOR  OF  BILLIARDS 89 

SHADRACH  O'LEARY 91 

How  ANNANDALE  WENT  OUT 93 

ALMA  MATER 95 

MINIVER  CHEEVY 97 

THE  PILOT 100 

VICKERY'S  MOUNTAIN 102 

BON  VOYAGE 106 

THE  COMPANION 109 

ATHERTON'S  GAMBIT Ill 

FOR  A  DEAD  LADY 114 

Two  GARDENS  IN  LINNDALE 116 

THE  REVEALER  123 


THE   MASTER 


THE    MASTER* 

(LINCOLN) 

A  flying  word  from  here  and  there 
Had  sown  the  name  at  which  we  sneered, 
But  soon  the  name  was  everywhere, 
To  be  reviled  and  then  revered: 
A  presence  to  be  loved  and  feared, 
We  cannot  hide  it,  or  deny 
That  we,  the  gentlemen  who  jeered, 
May  be  forgotten  by  and  by. 
*  Supposed  to  have  been  written  not  long  after  the  Civil  War. 

[3] 


He  came  when  days  were  perilous 
And  hearts  of  men  were  sore  beguiled; 
And  having  made  his  note  of  us, 
He  pondered  and  was  reconciled. 
Was  ever  master  yet  so  mild 
As  he,  and  so  untamable? 
We  doubted,  even  when  he  smiled, 
Not  knowing  what  he  knew  so  well. 

He  knew  that  undeceiving  fate 

Would  shame  us  whom  he  served  unsought; 

He  knew  that  he  must  wince  and  wait — 

The  jest  of  those  for  whom  he  fought; 

He  knew  devoutly  what  he  thought 

Of  us  and  of  our  ridicule; 

He  knew  that  we  must  all  be  taught 

Like  little  children  in  a  school. 

[4] 


We  gave  a  glamour  to  the  task 

That  he  encountered  and  saw  through, 

But  little  of  us  did  he  ask, 

And  little  did  we  ever  do. 

And  what  appears  if  we  review 

The  season  when  we  railed  and  chaffed? 

It  is  the  face  of  one  who  knew 

That  we  were  learning  while  we  laughed. 

The  face  that,  in  our  vision  feels 
Again  the  venom  that  we  flung, 
Transfigured  to  the  world  reveals 
The  vigilance  to  which  we  clung. 
Shrewd,  hallowed,  harassed,  and  among 
'The  mysteries  that  are  untold, 
The  face  we  see  was  never  young 
Nor  could  it  ever  have  been  old. 

[5] 


For  he,  to  whom  we  had  applied 
Our  shopman's  test  of  age  and  worth, 
Was  elemental  when  he  died, 
As  he  was  ancient  at  his  birth: 
The  saddest  among  kings  of  earth, 
Bowed  with  a  galling  crown,  this  man 
Met  rancor  with  a  cryptic  mirth, 
Laconic — and  Olympian. 

The  love,  the  grandeur,  and  the  fame 
Are  bounded  by  the  world  alone; 
The  calm,  the  smouldering,  and  the  flame 
Of  awful  patience  were  his  own : 
With  him  they  are  forever  flown 
Past  all  our  fond  self-shadowings, 
Wherewith  we  cumber  the  Unknown 
As  with  inept,  Icarian  wings. 

[6] 


For  we  were  not  as  other  men: 
'Twas  ours  to  soar  and  his  to  see- 
But  we  are  coming  down  again, 
And  we  shall  come  down  pleasantly; 
Nor  shall  we  longer  disagree 
On  what  it  is  to  be  sublime, 

But  flourish  in  our  perigee 

r     5  H^-W  ch  GKW 

And  have  one  Titan  at  a  time. 


[7] 


THE  TOWN  DOWN  THE  RIVER 


THE  TOWN  DOWN  THE  RIVER 

I 

Said  the  Watcher  by  the  Way 

J  '  00-t    I 

To  the  young  and  the  unladen, 
To  the  boy  and  to  the  maiden, 
"God  be  with  you  both  to-day. 
First  your  song  came  ringing, 

XT 

JNow  you  come,  you  two, — 
Knowing  naught  of  what  you  do, 
Or  of  what  your  dreams  are  bringing. 


"Oh  you  children  who  go  singing 
To  the  Town  down  the  River, 
Where  the  millions  cringe  and  shiver, 
Tell  me  what  you  know  to-day; 
Tell  me  how  far  you  are  going,. 
Tell  me  how  you  find  your  way. 
O  you  children  who  go  dreaming, 
Tell  me  what  you  dream  to-day." 

"He  is  old  and  we  have  heard  him," 
Said  the  boy  then  to  the  maiden; 
"He  is  old  and  heavy  laden 
With  a  load  we  throw  away. 
Care  may  come  to  find  us, 
Age  may  lay  us  low; 
Still,  we  seek  the  light  we  know, 
And  the  dead  we  leave  behind  us. 
[12] 


"Did  he  think  that  he  would  blind  us 
Into  such  a  small  believing 
As  to  live  without  achieving, 
When  the  lights  have  led  so  far? 
Let  him  watch  or  let  him  wither, — 
Shall  he  tell  us  where  we  are? 
We  know  best  who  go  together, 
Downward,  onward,  and  so  far." 


[13] 


II 

Said  the  Watcher  by  the  Way 
To  the  fiery  folk  that  hastened, 
To  the  loud  and  the  unchastened, 
"You  are  strong,  I  see,  to-day. 
Strength  and  hope  may  lead  you 
To  the  journey's  end, — 
Each  to  be  the  other's  friend 
If  the  Town  should  fail  to  need  you. 

[14] 


"And  are  ravens  there  to  feed  you 
In  the  Town  down  the  River, 
Where  the  gift  appalls  the  giver 
And  youth  hardens  day  by  day? 
O  you  brave  and  you  unshaken, 
Are  you  truly  on  your  way  ? 
And  are  sirens  in  the  River, 
That  you  come  so  far  to-day?" 

"You  are  old,  and  we  have  listened,3 
Said  the  voice  of  one  who  halted; 
"You  are  sage  and  self -exalted, 
But  your  way  is  not  our  way. 
You  that  cannot  aid  us 
Give  us  words  to  eat. 
Be  assured  that  they  are  sweet, 
And  that  we  are  as  God  made  us. 

[15] 


"Not  in  vain  have  you  delayed,  us, 
Though  the  River  still  be  calling 
Through  the  twilight  that  is  falling 
And  the  Town  be  still  so  far. 
By  the  whirlwind  of  your  wisdom 
Leagues  are  lifted  as  leaves  are; 
But  a  king  without  a  kingdom 
Fails  us,  who  have  come  so  far." 


[16] 


Ill 

Said  the  Watcher  by  the  Way 

To  the  slower  folk  who  stumbled, 

To  the  weak  and  the  world-humbled, 

"Tell  me  how  you  fare  to-day. 

Some  with  ardor  shaken, 

All  with  honor  scarred, 

Do  you  falter,  finding  hard 

The  far  chance  that  you  have  taken  ? 

[17] 


"Or,  do  you  at  length  awaken 
To  an  antic  retribution, 
Goading  to  a  new  confusion 
The  drugged  hopes  of  yesterday? 
O  you  poor  mad  men  that  hobble, 
Will  you  not  return,  or  stay  ? 
Do  you  trust,  you  broken  people, 
To  a  dawn  without  the  day?" 

"You  speak  well  of  what  you  know  not," 

Muttered  one;  and  then  a  second: 

"You  have  begged  and  you  have  beckoned, 

But  you  see  us  on  our  way. 

Who  are  you  to  scold  us, 

Knowing  what  we  know? 

Jeremiah,  long  ago, 

Said  as  much  as  you  have  told  us. 

[18] 


/"As  we  are,  then,  you  behold  us: 
/  Derelicts  of  all  conditions, 
I    Poets,  rogues,  and  sick  physicians, 
Plodding  forward  from  afar; 
Forward  now  into  the  darkness 
Where  the  men  before  us  are; 
Forward,  onward,  out  of  grayness, 
To  the  light  that  shone  so  far." 


[19] 


IV 

Said  the  Watcher  by  the  Way 
To  some  aged  ones  who  lingered, 
To  the  shrunken,  the  claw-fingered, 
"So  you  come  for  me  to-day." — 
"Yes,  to  give  you  warning; 
You  are  old,"  one  said; 
"You  have  old  hairs  on  your  head, 
Fit  for  laurel,  not  for  scorning. 

[20] 


"From  the  first  of  early  morning 
We  have  toiled  along  to  find  you; 
We,  as  others,  have  maligned  you, 
But  we  need  your  scorn  to-day. 
By  the  light  that  we  saw  shining, 
Let  us  not  be  lured  alway; 
Let  us  hear  no  River  calling 
When  to-morrow  is  to-day." 

"But  your  lanterns  are  unlighted 
And  the  Town  is  far  before  you: 
Let  us  hasten,  I  implore  you," 
Said  the  Watcher  by  the  Way. 
"Long  have  I  waited, 
Longer  have  I  known 
That  the  Town  would  have  its  own, 
And  the  call  be  for  the  fated. 

[21] 


"In  the  name  of  all  created, 
Let  us  hear  no  more,  my  brothers; 
Are  we  older  than  all  others? 
Are  the  planets  in  our  way?" — 
"Hark,"  said  one;  "I  hear  the  River, 
Calling  always,  night  and  day." — 
"Forward,  then!    The  lights  are  shining,' 
Said  the  Watcher  by  the  Way. 


[22] 


AN  ISLAND 


AN  ISLAND 

(SAINT  HELENA,  1821) 

Take  it  away,  and  swallow  it  yourself. 

Ha!     Look  you,  there's  a  rat. 

Last  night  there  were  a  dozen  on  that  shelf, 

And  two  of  them  were  living  in  my  hat. 

Look!     Now  he  goes,  but  he'll  come  back— 

Ha?    But  he  will,  I  say  ... 

II  reviendra-z-a  Paques, 

Ou  a  la  Trinite  .  .  . 

Be  very  sure  that  he'll  return  again; 

[25] 


For  said  the  Lord:    Imprimis,  we  have  rats, 
And  having  rats,  we  have  rain. — 
x    So  on  the  seventh  day 
He  rested,  and  made  Pain. 
—Man,  if  you  love  the  Lord,  and  if  the  Lord 
Love  liars,  I  will  have  you  at  your  word 
And  swallow  it.     Voila.     Bah! 

Where  do  I  say  it  is 
That  I  have  lain  so  long? 
Where  do  I  count  myself  among  the  dead, 
As  once  above  the  living  and  the  strong? 
And  what  is  this  that  comes  and  goes, 
Fades  and  swells  and  overflows, 
Like  music  underneath  and  overhead? 
What  is  it  in  me  now  that  rings  and  roars 
Like  fever-laden  wine  ? 

[26] 


What  ruinous  tavern-shine 

Is  this  that  lights  me  far  from  worlds  and  wars 

And  women  that  were  mine? 

Where  do  I  say  it  is 

That  Time  has  made  my  bed  ? 

What  lowering  outland  hostelry  is  this 

For  one  the  stars  have  disinherited? 

An  island,  I  have  said: 

A  peak,  where  fiery  dreams  and  far  desires 

Are  rained  on,  like  old  fires: 

A  vermin  region  by  the  stars  abhorred, 

Where  falls  the  flaming  word 

By  which  I  consecrate  with  unsuccess 

An  acreage  of  God's  forgetfulness, 

Left  here  above  the  foam  and  long  ago 

Made  right  for  my  duress; 

[271 


Where  soon  the  sea, 

My  foaming  and  long-clamoring  enemy, 

Will  have  within  the  cryptic,  old  embrace 

Of  her  triumphant  arms — a  memory. 

Why  then,  the  place  ? 

What  forage  of  the  sky  or  of  the  shore 

Will  make  it  any  more, 

To  me,  than  my  award  of  what  was  left 

Of  number,  time,  and  space? 

And  what  is  on  me  now  that  I  should  heed 

The  durance  or  the  silence  or  the  scorn  ? 

I  was  the  gardener  who  had  the  seed 

Which  holds  within  its  heart  the  food  and  fire 

That  gives  to  man  a  glimpse  of  his  desire; 

And  I  have  tilled,  indeed, 

Much  land,  where  men  may  say  that  I  have  plante 

[28] 


Unsparingly  my  corn — 

For  a  world  harvest-haunted 

And  for  a  world  unborn. 

Meanwhile,  am  I  to  view,  as  at  a  play, 

Through  smoke  the  funeral  flames  of  yesterday, 

And  think  them  far  away? 

Am  I  to  doubt  and  yet  be  given  to  know 

That  where  my  demon  guides  me,  there  I  go  ? — 

An  island?     Be  it  so. 

For  islands,  after  all  is  said  and  done, 

Tell  but  a  wilder  game  that  was  begun, 

When  Fate,  the  mistress  of  iniquities, 

The  mad  Queen-spinner  of  all  discrepancies, 

Beguiled  the  dyers  of  the  dawn  that  day, 

And  even  in  such  a  curst  and  sodden  way 

Made  my  three  colors  one. 

[29] 


— So  be  it,  and  the  way  be  as  of  old: 

So  be  the  weary  truth  again  retold 

Of  great  kings  overthrown 

Because  they  would  be  kings,  and  lastly  kings  alone. 

Fling  to  each  dog  his  bone. 

Flags  that  are  vanished,  flags  that  are  soiled  and 
furled, 

Say  what  will  be  the  word  when  I  am  gone: 

What  learned  little  acrid  archive  men 

Will  burrow  to  find  me  out  and  burrow  again,— 

But  all  for  naught,  unless 

To  find  there  was  another  Island  .  .  .  Yes, 

There  are  too  many  islands  in  this  world, 

There  are  too  many  rats,  and  there  is  too  much  rain. 

So  three  things  are  made  plain 

Between  the  sea  and  sky: 

[30] 


Three  separate  parts  of  one  thing,  which  is  Pain 

Bah,  what  a  way  to  die! — 

To  leave  my  Queen  still  spinning  there  on  high, 

Still  wondering,  I  dare  say, 

To  see  me  in  this  way  .  .  . 

Madame  a  sa  tour  monte 

Si  haul  qu'elle  pent  monter — 

Like  one  of  our  Commissioners  .  .  .  ail  ail 

Prometheus  and  the  women  have  to  cry, 

But  no,  not  I  ... 

Faugh,  what  a  way  to  die! 

But  who  are  these  that  come  and  go 
Before  me,  shaking  laurel  as  they  pass  ? 
Laurel,  to  make  me  know 
For  certain  what  they  mean: 
That  now  my  Fate,  my  Queen, 

[31] 


Having  found  that  she,  by  way  of  right  reward, 

Will  after  madness  go  remembering, 

And  laurel  be  as  grass, — 

Remembers  the  one  thing 

That  she  has  left  to  bring. 

The  floor  about  me  now  is  like  a  sward 

Grown  royally.     Now  it  is  like  a  sea 

That  heaves  with  laurel  heavily, 

Surrendering  an  outworn  enmity 

For  what  has  come  to  be. 

— But  not  for  you, 

No,  not  for  you,  returning  with  your  curled 
And  haggish  lips.     And  why  are  you  alone  ? 
Why  do  you  stay  when  all  the  rest  are  gone  ? 
Why  do  you  bring  those  treacherous  eyes  that  reek 
With  venom  and  hate  the  while  you  seek 

[321 


To  make  me  understand? — 
Laurel  from  every  land, 
Laurel,  but  not  the  world? 

Fury,  or  perjured  Fate,  or  whatsoever, 

Tell  me  the  bloodshot  word  that  is  your  name 

And  I  will  pledge  remembrance  of  the  same 

That  shall  be  crossed  out  never; 

Whereby  posterity 

May  know,  being  told,  that  you  have  come  to  me, 

You  and  your  tongueless  train  without  a  sound, 

With  covetous  hands  and  eyes  and  laurel  all  around, 

Foreshowing  your  endeavor 

To  mirror  me  the  demon  of  my  days, 

To  make  me  doubt  him,  loathe  him,  face  to  face. 

Bowed  with  unwilling  glory  from  the  quest 

That  was  ordained  and  manifest, 

[33] 


You  shake  it  off  and  wish  me  joy  of  it  ? 

Laurel  from  every  place, 

Laurel,  but  not  the  rest? 

Such  are  the  words  in  you  that  I  divine, 

Such  are  the  words  of  men. 

So  be  it,  and  what  then  ? 

Poor,  tottering  counterfeit, 

Are  you  a  thing  to  tell  me  what  is  mine? 

Grant  we  the  demon  sees 

An  inch  beyond  the  line, 

What  comes  of  mine  and  thine? 

A  thousand  here  and  there  may  shriek  and  freeze, 

Or  they  may  starve  in  fine. 

The  Old  Physician  has  a  crimson  cure 

For  such  as  these, 

And  ages  after  ages  will  endure 

[34] 


The  minims  of  it  that  are  victories. 

The  wreath  may  go  from  brow  to  brow, 

The  state  may  flourish,  flame,  and  cease; 

But  through  the  fury  and  the  flood  somehow 

The  demons  are  acquainted  and  at  ease, 

And  somewhat  hard  to  please. 

Mine,  I  believe,  is  laughing  at  me  now 

In  his  primordial  way, 

Quite  as  he  laughed  of  old  at  Hannibal, 

Or  rather  at  Alexander,  let  us  say. 

Therefore,  be  what  you  may, 

Time  has  no  further  need 

Of  you,  or  of  your  breed. 

My  demon,  irretrievably  astray, 

Has  ruined  the  last  chorus  of  a  play 

That  will,  so  he  avers,  be  played  again  some  day; 

[35] 


And  you,  poor  glowering  ghost, 

Have  staggered  under  laurel  here  to  boast 

Above  me,  dying,  while  you  lean 

In  triumph  awkward  and  unclean, 

About  some  words  of  his  that  you  have  read  ? 

Thing,  do  I  not  know  them  all  ? 

He  tells  me  how  the  storied  leaves  that  fall 

Are  tramped  on,  being  dead  ? 

They  are  sometimes :  with  a  storm  foul  enough 

They  are  seized  alive  and  they  are  blown  far  off 

To  mould  on  islands. — What  else  have  you  read  ? 

He  tells  me  that  great  kings  look  very  small 

When  they  are  put  to  bed;  _ 

And  this  being  said, 

He  tells  me  that  the  battles  I  have  won 

Are  not  my  own, 

[36] 


But  his — howbeit  fame  will  yet  atone 

For  all  defect,  and  sheave  the  mystery: 

The  follies  and  the  slaughters  I  have  done 

Are  mine  alone, 

And  so  far  History. 

So  be  the  tale  again  retold 

And  leaf  by  clinging  leaf  unrolled 

Where  I  have  written  in  the  dawn, 

With  ink  that  fades  anon, 

Like  Caesar's,  and  the  way  be  as  of  old. 

Ho,  is  it  you?    I  thought  you  were  a  ghost, 
Is  it  time  for  you  to  poison  me  again  ? 
Well,  here's  our  friend  the  rain, — 
Mironton,  mironton,  mirontaine  .  .  . 
Man,  I  could  murder  you  almost, 
You  with  your  pills  and  toast. 

[37] 


Take  it  away  and  eat  it,  and  shoot  rats. 

Ha!  there  he  comes.     Your  rat  will  never  fail, 

My  punctual  assassin,  to  prevail — 

While  he  has  power  to  crawl, 

Or  teeth  to  gnaw  withal — 

Where  kings  are  caged.    Why  has  a  king  no  cats  ? 

What!— 

You  say  that  I'll  achieve  it  if  I  try? 

Swallow  it?— No,  not  I  ... 

God,  what  a  way  to  die  I 


[38] 


CALVERLY'S 


CALVERLY'S 

6| 
We  go  no  more  to  Calverly's, 

For  there  the  lights  are  few  and  low; 
And  who  are  there  to  see  by  them, 
Or  what  they  see,  we  do  not  know. 
Poor  strangers  of  another  tongue 
May  now  creep  in  from  anywhere, 
And  we,  forgotten,  be  no  more 
Than  twilight  on  a  ruin  there. 

[41] 


We  two,  the  remnant.    All  the  rest 

Are  cold  and  quiet.     You  nor  I, 

Nor  fiddle  now,  nor  flagon-lid, 

May  ring  them  back  from  where  they  lie. 

No  fame  delays  oblivion 

For  them,  but  something  yet  survives: 

A  record  written  fair,  could  we 

But  read  the  book  of  scattered  lives. 

There'll  be  a  page  for  Leffingwell, 
And  one  for  Lingard,  the  Moon-calf; 
And  who  knows  what  for  Clavering, 
Who  died  because  he  couldn't  laugh  ? 
Who  knows  or  cares?     No  sign  is  here, 
No  face,  no  voice,  no  memory; 
No  Lingard  with  his  eerie  joy, 
No  Clavering,  no  Calverly. 

[42] 


We  cannot  have  them  here  with  us 
To  say  where  their  light  lives  are  gone, 
Or  if  they  be  of  other  stuff 
Than  are  the  moons  of  Ilion. 
So,  be  their  place  of  one  estate 
With  ashes,  echoes,  and  old  wars, — 
Or  ever  we  be  of  the  night, 
Or  we  be  lost  among  the  stars. 


[43] 


LEFFINGWELL 

I— THE  LURE 

No,  no, — forget  your  Cricket  and  your  Ant, 
For  I  shall  never  set  my  name  to  theirs 
That  now  bespeak  the  very  sons  and  heirs 
Incarnate  of  Queen  Gossip  and  King  Cant. 
The  case  of  Leffingwell  is  mixed,  I  grant, 
And  futile  seems  the  burden  that  he  bears; 
But  are  we  sounding  his  forlorn  affairs 
Who  brand  him  parasite  and  sycophant? 

[44] 


I  tell  you,  Leffingwell  was  more  than  these; 
And  if  he  prove  a  rather  sorry  Anight, 
What  quiverings  in  the  distance  of  what  light 
May  not  have  lured  him  with  high  promises, 

And  then  gone  down  ? — He  may  have  been  de 
ceived; 

He  may  have  lied, — he  did;  and  he  believed. 


[45] 


LEFFINGWELL 

II— THE  QUICKSTEP 

The  dirge  is  over,  the  good  work  is  done, 
All  as  he  would  have  had  it,  and  we  go; 
And  we  who  leave  him  say  we  do  not  know 
How  much  is  ended  or  how  much  begun. 
So  men  have  said  before  of  many  a  one; 
So  men  may  say  of  us  when  Time  shall  throw 
Such  earth  as  may  be  needful  to  bestow 
On  you  and  me  the  covering  hush  we  shun. 

[46] 


Well  hated,  better  loved,  he  played  and  lost, 
And  left  us;  and  we  smile  at  his  arrears; 
And  who  are  we  to  know  what  it  all  cost, 

Or  what  we  may  have  wrung  from  him,  the 
buyer  ? 

The  pageant  of  his  failure-laden  years 

Told  ruin  of  high  price.    The  place  was  higher. 


[47] 


LEFFINGWELL 

III— REQUIESCAT 

We  never  knew  the  sorrow  or  the  pain 
Within  him,  for  he  seemed  as  one  asleep — 
Until  he  faced  us  with  a  dying  leap, 
And  with  a  blast  of  paramount,  profane, 
And  vehement  valediction  did  explain 
To  each  of  us,  in  words  that  we  shall  keep, 
Why  we  were  not  to  wonder  or  to  weep, 
Or  ever  dare  to  wish  him  back  again. 

[48] 


He  may  be  now  an  amiable  shade, 
With  merry  fellow-phantoms  unafraid 
Around  him — but  we  do  not  ask.     We  know 
That  he  would  rise  and  haunt  us  horribly, 
And  be  with  us  o'  nights  of  a  certainty. 
Did  we  not  hear  him  when  he  told  us  so? 


[49] 


CLAVERING 

I  say  no  more  for  Clavering 

Than  I  should  say  of  him  who  fails 
To  bring  his  wounded  vessel  home 

When  reft  of  rudder  and  of  sails; 

I  say  no  more  than  I  should  say 
Of  any  other  one  who  sees 

Too  far  for  guidance  of  to-day, 
Too  near  for  the  eternities. 

[50] 


I  think  of  him  as  I  should  think 
Of  one  who  for  scant  wages  played, 

And  faintly,  a  flawed  instrument 
That  fell  while  it  was  being  made; 

I  think  of  him  as  one  who  fared, 

Unfaltering  and  undeceived, 
Amid  mirages  of  renown 

And  urgings  of  the  unachieved; 

I  think  of  him  as  one  who  gave 
To  Lingard  leave  to  be  amused, 

And  listened  with  a  patient  grace 
That  we,  the  wise  ones,  had  refused; 

I  think  of  metres  that  he  wrote 
For  Cubit,  the  ophidian  guest: 

"What  Lilith,  or  Dark  Lady"  .  .  .  Well, 
Time  swallows  Cubit  with  the  rest. 

[51] 


1  think  of  last  words  that  he  said 

One  midnight  over  Calverly: 
"Good-by — good  man."     He  was  not  good; 

So  Clavering  Was  wrong,  you  see. 

I  wonder  what  had  come  to  pass 
Could  he  have  borrowed  for  a  spell 

The  fiery-frantic  indolence 

That  made  a  ghost  of  Leffingwell; 

I  wonder  if  he  pitied  us 

Who  cautioned  him  till  he  was  gray 
To  build  his  house  with  ours  on  earth 

And  have  an  end  of  yesterday; 

I  wonder  what  it  was  we  saw 

To  make  us  think  that  we  were  strong; 
p        I  wonder  if  he  saw  too  much, 

Or  if  he  looked  one  way  too  long. 

[52] 


But  when  were  thoughts  or  wonderings 
To  ferret  out  the  man  within  ? 

Why  prate  of  what  he  seemed  to  be, 
And  all  that  he  might  not  have  been  ? 

He  clung  to  phantoms  and  to  friends, 
And  never  came  to  anything. 

He  left  a  wreath  on  Cubit's  grave. 
I  say  no  more  for  Clavering. 


[53] 


LINGARD  AND  THE  STARS 

The  table  hurled  itself,  to  our  surprise, 
At  Lingard,  and  anon  rapped  eagerly: 
"When  earth  is  cold  and  there  is  no  more  sea, 
There  will  be  what  was  Lingard.     Otherwise, 
Why  lure  the  race  to  ruin  through  the  skies  ? 
And  why  have  Leffingwell,  or  Calverly?" — 
"I  wish  the  ghost  would  give  his  name/'  said  he; 
And  searching  gratitude  was  in  his  eyes. 

[54] 


He  stood  then  by  the  window  for  a  time, 
And  only  after  the  last  midnight  chime 
Smote  the  day  dead  did  he  say  anything: 
"Come  out,  my  little  one,  the  stars  are  bright; 
Come  out,  you  laelaps,  and  inhale  the  night." 
And  so  he  went  away  with  Clavering. 


[55] 


MISCELLANEOUS 


PASA  THALASSA  THALASSA 

"  The  sea  is  everywhere  the  sea." 
I 

Gone — faded  out  of  the  story,  the  sea-faring  friend  I 
remember  ? 

Gone  for  a  decade,  they  say:  never  a  word  or  a  sign. 

Gone  with  his  hard  red  face  that  only  his  laughter 
could  wrinkle, 

Down  where  men  go  to  be  still,  by  the  old  way  of  the 
sea. 

[59] 


Never  again  will  he  come,  with  rings  in  his  ears  like  a 
pirate, 

Back  to  be  living  and  seen,  here  with  his  roses  and 
vines; 

Here  where  the  tenants  are  shadows  and  echoes  of 
years  uneventful, 

Memory  meets  the  event,  told  from  afar  by  the  sea. 


Smoke  that  floated  and  rolled  in  the  twilight  away  from 
the  chimney 

Floats  and  rolls  no  more.    Wheeling  and  falling,  in- 
stead,  j 

Down  with  a  twittering  flash  go  the  smooth  and  in 
scrutable  swallows, 

Down  to  the  place  made  theirs  by  the  cold  work  of  the 
sea. 


[60] 


Roses  have  had  their  day,  and  the  dusk  is  on  yarrow 
and  wormwood — 

Dusk  that  is  over  the  grass,  drenched  with  memorial 
dew; 

Trellises   lie  like  bones  in  a  ruin  that  once  was  a 
garden, 

Swallows   have   lingered   and   ceased,    shadows   and 
echoes  are  all. 


[61] 


II 

Where  is  he  lying  to-night,  as  I  turn  away  down  to  the 
valley, 

Down  where  the  lamps  of  men  tell  me  the  streets  are 
alive  ? 

Where  shall  I  ask,  and  of  whom,  in  the  town  or  on  land 
or  on  water, 

News  of  a  time  and  a  place  buried  alike  and  with  him  ? 


Few  now  remain  who  may  care,  nor  may  they  be  wiser 
for  caring, 

Where  or  what  manner  the  doom,  whether  by  day  or 
by  night; 

Whether  in  Indian  deeps  or  on  flood-laden  fields  of 
Atlantis, 

Or  by  the  roaring  Horn,  shrouded  in  silence  he  lies. 
[62] 


Few  now  remain  who  return  by  the  weed-weary  path 
to  his  cottage, 

Drawn  by  the  scene  as  it  was — met  by  the  chill  and 
the  change; 

Few  are  alive  who  report,  and  few  are  alive  who  re 
member, 

More  of  him  now  than  a  name  carved  somewhere  on 
the  sea. 


"Where  is  he  lying?"  I  ask,  and  the  lights  in  the  valley 
are  nearer; 

Down  to  the  streets  I  go,   down  to  the  murmur  of 
men. 

Down  to  the  roar  of  the  sea  in  a  ship  may  be  well  for 
another — 

Down  where  he  lies  to-night,  silent,    and  under  the 
storms. 


[63] 


MOMUS 

"Where's  the  need  of  singing  now?" — 

Smooth  your  brow, 

Momus,  and  be  reconciled, 

For  King  Kronos  is  a  child — 

Child  and  father, 

Or  god  rather, 

And  all  gods  are  wild. 

"Who  reads  Byron  any  more?" — 

Shut  the  door, 

Momus,  for  I  feel  a  draught; 

[64] 


Shut  it  quick,  for  some  one  laughed. 
"What's  become  of 
Browning?    Some  of 
Wordsworth  lumbers  like  a  raft? 

"What  are  poets  to  find  here?"— 

Have  no  fear: 

When  the  stars  are  shining  blue 

There  will  yet  be  left  a  few 

Themes  availing — 

And  these  failing, 

Momus,  there'll  be  you. 


[65] 


HV/.        p^f  ^ 
- ^  *  ^L^c^ 

UNCLE  ANANIAS 


His  words  were  magic  and  his  heart  was  true, 
And  everywhere  he  wandered  he  was  blessed. 

Out  of  all  ancient  men  my  childhood  knew 
I  choose  him  and  I  mark  him  for  the  best. 

Of  all  authoritative  liars,  too, 
I  crown  him  loveliest. 

How  fondly  I  remember  the  delight 

That  always  glorified  him  in  the  spring; 

The  joyous  courage  and  the  benedight 
Profusion  of  his  faith  in  everything! 

He  was  a  good  old  man,  and  it  was  right 
That  he  should  have  his  fling. 

[66] 


And  often,  underneath  the  apple-trees, 

When  we  surprised  him  in  the  summer  time, 

With  what  superb  magnificence  and  ease 
He  sinned  enough  to  make  the  day  sublime! 

And  if  he  liked  us  there  about  his  knees, 
Truly  it  was  no  crime. 

All  summer  long  we  loved  him  for  the  same 

Perennial  inspiration  of  his  lies; 
And  when  the  russet  wealth  of  autumn  came, 

There  flew  but  fairer  visions  to  our  eyes — 
Multiple,  tropical,  winged  with  a  feathery  flame, 

Like  birds  of  paradise. 

So  to  the  sheltered  end  of  many  a  year 

He  charmed  the  seasons  out  with  pageantry, 

Wearing  upon  his  forehead,  with  no  fear, 
The  laurel  of  approved  iniquity. 

And  every  child  who  knew  him,  far  or  near, 
Did  love  him  faithfully. 

[67] 


THE  WHIP 

The  doubt  you  fought  so  long, 
The  cynic  net  you  cast, 
The  tyranny,  the  wrong, 
The  ruin,  they  are  past; 
And  here  you  are  at  last, 
Your  blood  no  longer  vexed. 
The  coffin  has  you  fast, 
The  clod  will  have  you  next. 

[68] 


But  fear  you  not  the  clod, 
Nor  ever  doubt  the  grave: 
The  roses  and  the  sod 
Will  not  forswear  the  wave. 
The  gift  the  river  gave 
Is  now  but  theirs  to  cover: 
The  mistress  and  the  slave 
Are  gone  now,  and  the  lover. 

You  left  the  two  to  find 
Their  own  way  to  the  brink: 
Then — shall  I  call  you  blind  ?- 
You  chose  to  plunge  and  sink. 
God  knows  the  gall  we  drink.. 
Is  not  the  mead  we  cryjor, 
Nor  was  it,  I  should  think — 
For  you — a  thing  to  die  for. 

[69] 


Could  we  have  done  the  same, 
Had  we  been  in  your  place  ? — 
This  funeral  of  your  name 
Throws  no  light  on  the  case. — 
Could  we  have  made  the  chase, 
And  felt  then  as  you  felt? — 
But  what's  this  on  your  face, 
Blue,  curious,  like  a  welt? 

There  were  some  ropes  of  sand 
Recorded  long  ago, 
But  none,  I  understand, 
Of  water.     Is  it  so  ? 
And  she — she  struck  the  blow, 
You  but  a  neck  behind.  .  . 
You  saw  the  river  flow — 
Still,  shall  I  call  you  blind? 

[70] 


THE  WHITE  LIGHTS 

(BROADWAY,  1906) 

When  in  from  Delos  came  the  gold 
That  held  the  dream  of  Pericles, 
When  first  Athenian  ears  were  told 
The  tumult  of  Euripides, 
When  men  met  Aristophanes, 
Who  fledged  them  with  immortal  quills — 
Here,  where  the  time  knew  none  of  these, 
There  were  some  islands  and  some  hills. 

[71] 


When  Rome  went  ravening  to  see 

The  sons  of  mothers  end  their  days, 

When  Flaccus  bade  Leuconoe 

To  banish  her  Chaldean  ways, 

When  first  the  pearled,  alembic  phrase 

Of  Maro  into  music  ran — 

Here  there  was  neither  blame  nor  praise 

For  Rome,  or  for  the  Mantuan. 

When  Avon,  like  a  faery  floor, 
Lay  freighted,  for  the  eyes  of  One, 
With  galleons  laden  long  before 
By  moonlit  wharves  in  Avalon — 
Here,  where  the  white  lights  have  begun 
To  seethe  a  way  for  something  fair, 
No  prophet  knew,  from  what  was  done, 
That  there  was  triumph  in  the  air. 

[72] 


EXIT 

For  what  we  owe  to  other  days, 
Before  we  poisoned  him  with  praise, 
May  we  who  shrank  to  find  him  weak 
Remember  that  he  cannot  speak. 

For  envy  that  we  may  recall, 
And  for  our  faith  before  the  fall, 
May  we  who  are  alive  be  slow 
To  tell  what  we  shall  never  know. 

For  penance  he  would  not  confess, 
And  for  the  fateful  emptiness 
Of  early  triumph  undermined, 
May  we  now  venture  to  be  kind. 

[73] 


NORMANDY 

(From  the  French  of  B6rat) 

When  all  the  land's  alive  again 

With  winter  far  away, 
And  heaven  over  France  again 

Is  fairer  than  to-day, 
When  spring  puts  off  her  gray  for  green, 

And  swallows  all  return — 
Then  I'll  go  back  to  Normandy, 

The  land  where  I  was  born. 

[74] 


I  know  the  fields  of  Switzerland, 

The  peaks  and  icy  meres; 
I  know  the  skies  of  Italy, 

I  know  the  gondoliers; 
But  let  me  wander  where  I  will, 

I  say  that  I'll  return 
To  Normandy,  my  Normandy, 

The  land  where  I  was  born. 

At  last  there  comes  a  time  to  us 

When  all  dreams  lose  their  glow; 
There  comes  a  time  when  in  our  souls 

We  need  the  long  ago; 
So  when  my  songs  are  cold  in  me, 

And  love  will  not  return — 
Then  I'll  go  back  to  Normandy, 

The  land  where  I  was  born. 

[75] 


LEONORA 

They  have  made  for  Leonora  this  low  dwelling  in  the 
ground, 

And  with  cedar  they  have  woven  the  four  walls  round. 
Like  a  little  dryad  hiding  she'll  be  wrapped  all  in  green, 

Better  kept  and  longer  valued  than  by  ways  that  would 
have  been. 

They  will  come  with  many  roses  in  the  early  afternoon, 

They  will  come  with  pinks  and  lilies  and  with  Leonora 
soon; 

And  as  long  as  beauty's  garments  over  beauty's  limbs 
are  thrown, 

There'll  be  lilies  that  are  liars,  and  the  rose  will  have  its 
own. 

[76] 


There  will  be  a  wondrous  quiet  in  the  house  that  they 
have  made, 

And  to-night  will  be  a  darkness  in  the  place  where  she'll 
be  laid; 

But  the  builders,  looking  forward  into  time,  could  only 
see 

Darker  nights  for  Leonora  than  to-night  shall  ever  be. 


[77] 


THE  WISE  BROTHERS 

FIRST  VOICE 

So  long  adrift,  so  fast  aground, 
What  foam  and  ruin  have  we  found — 
We,  the  Wise  Brothers? 

X"  •*' 

Could  heaven  and  earth  be  framed  amiss, 
That  we  should  land  in  fine  like  this — 
We,  and  no  others? 

SECOND  VOICE 

Convoyed  by  what  accursed  thing 
Made  we  this  evil  reckoning — 
We,  the  Wise  Brothers? 

[78] 


And  if  the  failure  be  complete, 
Why  look  we  forward  from  defeat — 
*  We,  and  what  others? 

THIRD  VOICE 

Blown  far  from  harbors  once  in  sight, 
May  we  not,  going  far,  go  right, — 

We,  the  Wise  Brothers  ? 
Companioned  by  the  whirling  spheres, 
Have  we  no  more  than  what  appears — 

We,  and  all  others? 


[79] 


BUT  FOR  THE   GRACE  OF  GOD 

"There,  but  for  the  grace  of  God,  goes  .  .  ." 

There  is  a  question  that  I  ask, 

And  ask  again: 
What  hunger  was  half -hidden  by  the  mask 

That  he  wore  then  ? 

There  was  a  word  for  me  to  say 

That  I  said  not; 
And  in  the  past  there  was  another  day 

That  I  forgot: 

[80] 


A  dreary,  cold,  unwholesome  day, 

Racked  overhead, — 
As  if  the  world  were  turning  the  wrong  way, 

And  the  sun  dead: 

A  day  that  comes  back  well  enough 

Now  he  is  gone. 
What  then  ?     Has  memory  no  other  stuff 

To  seize  upon? 

Wherever  he  may  wander  now 

In  his  despair, 
Would  he  be  more  contented  in  the  slough 

If  all  were  there? 

And  yet  he  brought  a  kind  of  light 

Into  the  room; 
And  when  he  left,  a  tinge  of  something  bright 

Survived  the  gloom. 

[81] 


Why  will  he  not  be  where  he  is, 

And  not  with  me  ? 
The  hours  that  are  my  life  are  mine,  not  his, — 

Or  used  to  be. 

What  numerous  imps  invisible 

Has  he  at  hand, 
Far-flying  and  forlorn  as  what  they  tell 

At  his  command  ? 

What  hold  of  weirdness  or  of  worth 

Can  he  possess, 
That  he  may  speak  from  anywhere  on  earth 

His  loneliness? 

Shall  I  be  caught  and  held  again 

In  the  old  net? — 
He  brought  a  sorry  sunbeam  with  him  then, 

But  it  beams  yet. 

[82] 


AU  REVOIR 

(MARCH  23,  1909.) 

What  libellers  of  destiny 

Are  these  who  are  afraid 
That  something  yet  without  a  name 

Will  seize  him  in  the  shade? 

Though  fever-demons  may  compound 

Their  most  malefic  brew, 
No  fever  can  defeat  the  man 

Who  still  has  work  to  do; 

[83] 


Though  mighty  lions  walk  about, 

Inimical  to  see, 
No  lion  yet  was  ever  fed 

On  things  that  are  to  be. 

Wherefore,  and  of  necessity, 
Will  he  meet  what  may  come; 

And  from  a  nation  will  be  missed 
As  others  are  from  home. 


[84] 


FOR  ARVIA 

ON  HER  FIFTH  BIRTHDAY 

You  Eyes,  you  large  and  all-inquiring  Eyes, 

That  look  so  dubiously  into  me, 

And  are  not  satisfied  with  what  you  see, 

Tell  me  the  worst  and  let  us  have  no  lies: 

Tell  me  the  secret  of  your  scrutinies, 

And  of  myself.     Am  I  a  Mystery? 

Am  I  a  Boojum — or  just  Company  ? 

What  do  you  say  ?   What  do  you  think,  You  Eyes  ? 

[85] 


You  say  not;  but  you  think,  beyond  a  doubt; 

And  you  have  the  whole  world  to  think  about, 

With  very  little  time  for  little  things. 

So  let  it  be;  and  let  it  all  be  fair — 

For  you,  and  for  the  rest  who  cannot  share 

Your  gold  of  unrevealed  awakenings. 


[86] 


THE  SUNKEN  CROWN 

Nothing  will  hold  him  longer — let  him  go; 
Let  him  go  down  where  others  have  gone  down; 
Little  he  cares  whether  we  smile  or  frown, 
Or  if  we  know,  or  if  we  think  we  know. 
The  call  is  on  him  for  his  overthrow, 
Say  we;  so  let  him  rise,  or  let  him  drown. 
Poor  fool!    He  plunges  for  the  sunken  crown, 
And  we — we  wait  for  what  the  plunge  may  show. 

[87] 


Well,  we  are  safe  enough.     Why  linger,  then  ? 
The  watery  chance  was  his,  not  ours.     Poor  fool! 
Poor  truant,  poor  Narcissus  out  of  school; 
Poor  jest  of  Askelon;   poor  king  of  men. — 
The  crown,  if  he  be  wearing  it,  may  cool 
His  arrogance,  and  he  may  sleep  again. 


[88] 


DOCTOR  OF  BILLIARDS 

Of  all  among  the  fallen  from  on  high, 
We  count  you  last  and  leave  you  to  regain 
Your  born  dominion  of  a  life  made  vain 
By  three  spheres  of  insidious  ivory. 
You  dwindle  to  the  lesser  tragedy — 
Content,  you  say.     We  call,  but  you  remain. 
Nothing  alive  gone  wrong  could  be  so  plain, 
Or  quite  so  blasted  with  absurdity. 

[89] 


You  click  away  the  kingdom  that  is  yours, 
And  you  click  off  your  crown  for  cap  and  bells; 
You  smile,  who  are  still  master  of  the  feast, 
And  for  your  smile  we  credit  you  the  least; 
But  when  your  false,  unhallowed  laugh  occurs, 
We  seem  to  think  there  may  be  something  else. 


[90] 


SHADRACH  O'LEARY 

O'Leary  was  a  poet — for  a  while: 

He  sang  of  many  ladies  frail  and  fair, 

The  rolling  glory  of  their  golden  hair, 

And  emperors  extinguished  with  a  smile. 

They  foiled  his  years  with  many  an  ancient  wile, 

And  if  they  limped,  O'Leary  didn't  care: 

He  turned  them  loose  and  had  them  everywhere, 

Undoing  saints  and  senates  with  their  guile. 

[911 


But  this  was  not  the  end.     A  year  ago 
I  met  him — and  to  meet  was  to  admire: 
Forgotten  were  the  ladies  and  the  lyre, 
And  the  small,  ink-fed  Eros  of  his  dream. 
By  questioning  I  found  a  man  to  know — 
A  failure  spared,  a  Shadrach  of  the  Gleam. 


[92 


HOW  ANNANDALE  WENT  OUT 

"They  called  it  Annandale — and  I  was  there 

To  flourish,  to  find  words,  and  to  attend: 

Liar,  physician,  hypocrite,  and  friend, 

I  watched  him;  and  the  sight  was  not  so  fair 

As  one  or  two  that  I  have  seen  elsewhere: 

An  apparatus  not  for  me  to  mend — 

A  wreck,  with  hell  between  him  and  the  end, 

Remained  of  Annandale;   and  I  was  there. 

[93] 


"I  knew  the  ruin  as  I  knew  the  man; 
So  put  the  two  together,  if  you  can, 
Remembering  the  worst  you  know  of  me. 
Now  view  yourself  as  I  was,  on  the  spot — 
With  a  slight  kind  of  engine.     Do  you  see  ? 

Like    this  .  .  .  You    wouldn't    hang    me?      I 
thought  not." 


[94] 


ALMA  MATER 

He  knocked,  and  I  beheld  him  at  the  door — 

A  vision  for  the  gods  to  verify. 

"What  battered  ancientry  is  this,"  thought  I, 

And  when,  if  ever,  did  we  meet  before?" 

But  ask  him  as  I  might,  I  got  no  more 

For  answer  than  a  moaning  and  a  cry: 

Too  late  to  parley,  but  in  time  to  die, 

He  staggered,  and  lay  shapeless  on  the  floor. 

[95] 


When  had  I  known  him?    And  what  brought 
him  here  ? 

Love,  warning,  malediction,  hunger,  fear? 
Surely  I  never  thwarted  such  as  he? — 
Again,  what  soiled  obscurity  was  this: 
Out  of  what  scum,  and  up  from  what  abyss, 
Had  they  arrived — these  rags  of  memory? 


[96] 


MINIVER  CHEEVY 

Miniver/tjLvy,  chjjd  of  scorn, 

Grew  lean  whjje  he  assailed  the  seasons;  autc- 
He  wept  that  he  was  ever  born, 

And  he  had  reasons. 

Miniver  loved  the  days  of  old 

When  swords  were  bright  and  steeds  were 
prancing; 

The  vision  of  a  warrior  bold 

/  i» 
Would  set  him  dancing. 

[97] 


Miniver  sighed  for  what  was  not, 
And  dreamed,  and  rested  from  his  labors; 

He  dreamed  of  Thebes  and  Camelot, 
And  Priam's  neighbors. 

Miniver  mourned  the  rjpe  renown 

That  made  so  many  a  name  so  fragrant; 

He  mourned  Romance,  now  on  the  town, 
And  Art,  a  vagrant. 

Miniver  loved  the  Medici, 

Albeit  he  had  never  seen  one; 
He  would  have  sinned  incessantly 
'  feoujd  he  have  been  one. 

Miniver  cursed  the  commonplace 
And  eyed  a  khaki  suit  with  loathing; 

He  missed  the  mediaeval  grace 
Of  iron  clothing. 

[98] 


Miniver  scorned  the  gold  he  sought,     ^,<^*>. 

But  sore  annoyed  was  he  without  it; 
Miniver  thought,  and  thought,  and  thought, 

And  thought  about  it. 

Miniver  Cheevy,  born  too  late, 

Scratched  his  head  and  kept  on  thinking; 
Miniver  coughed,  and  called  it  fate, 

And  kept  on  drinking. 


[99] 

I 


THE  PILOT 

From  the  Past  and  Unavailing 
Out  of  cloudland  we  are  steering; 
After  groping,  after  fearing, 
Into  starlight  we  come  trailing, 
And  we  find  the  stars  are  true. 
Still,  O  comrade,  what  of  you  ? 
You  are  gone,  but  we  are  sailing, 
And  the  old  ways  are  all  new. 

[100] 


For  the  Lost  and  Unreturning 
We  have  drifted,  we  have  waited; 
Uncommanded  and  unrated, 
We  have  tossed  and  wandered,  yearning 
For  a  charm  that  comes  no  more 
From  the  old  lights  by  the  shore: 
We  have  shamed  ourselves  in  learning 
What  you  knew  so  long  before. 

For  the  Breed  of  the  Far-going 
Who  are  strangers,  and  all  brothers, 
May  forget  no  more  than  others 
Who  look  seaward  with  eyes  flowing. 
But  are  brothers  to  bewail 
One  who  fought  so  foul  a  gale? 
You  have  won  beyond  our  knowing, 
You  are  gone,  but  yet  we  sail. 

[101] 


VICKERY'S  MOUNTAIN 

Blue  in  the  west  the  mountain  stands, 
And  through  the  long  twilight 

Vickery  sits  with  folded  hands, 
And  Vickery's  eyes  are  bright. 

Bright,  for  he  knows  what  no  man  else 

On  earth  as  yet  may  know: 
There's  a  golden  word  that  he  never  tells, 

And  a  gift  that  he  will  not  show. 

[102] 


He  dreams  of  honor  and  wealth  and  fame, 

He  smiles,  and  well  he  may; 
For  to  Vickery  once  a  sick  man  came 

Who  did  not  go  away. 

The  day  before  the  day  to  be, 

"Vickery,"  said  the  guest, 
"You  know  as  you  live  what's  left  of  me — 

And  you  shall  know  the  rest. 

"You  know  as  you  live  that  I  have  come 

To  what  we  call  the  end. 
No  doubt  you  have  found  me  troublesome, 

But  you've  also  found  a  friend; 

"For  we  shall  give  and  you  shall  take 

The  gold  that  is  in  view; 
The  mountain  there  and  I  shall  make 

A  golden  man  of  you. 

[103] 


"And  you  shall  leave  a  friend  behind 
Who  neither  frets  nor  feels; 

And  you  shall  move  among  your  kind 
With  hundreds  at  your  heels. 

"Now  this  that  I  have  written  here 
Tells  all  that  need  be  told; 

So,  Vickery,  take  the  way  that's  clear, 
And  be  a  man  of  gold." 

Vickery  turned  his  eyes  again 

To  the  far  mountain-side, 
And  wept  a  tear  for  worthy  men 

Defeated  and  defied. 

Since  then  a  crafty  score  of  years 
Have  come,  and  they  have  gone; 

But  Vickery  counts  no  lost  arrears: 
He  lingers  and  lives  on. 

[104] 


Blue  in  the  west  the  mountain  stands, 

Familiar  as  a  face. 
Blue,  but  Vickery  knows  what  sands 

Are  golden  at  its  base. 

He  dreams  and  lives  upon  the  day 
When  he  shall  walk  with  kings. 

Vickery  smiles — and  well  he  may: 
The  life-caged  linnet  sings. 

Vickery  thinks  the  time  will  come 

To  go  for  what  is  his; 
But  hovering,  unseen  hands  at  home 

Will  hold  him  where  he  is. 

There's  a  golden  word  that  he  never  tells 
And  a  gift  that  he  will  not  show. 

All  to  be  given  to  some  one  else — 
And  Vickery  shall  not  know. 

[105] 


BON  VOYAGE 

Child  of  a  line  accurst 
And  old  as  Troy, 

Bringer  of  best  and  worst 
In  wild  alloy — 

Light,  like  a  linnet  first, 
He  sang  for  joy. 

Thrall  to  the  gilded  ease 

Of  every  day, 
Mocker  of  all  degrees 

And  always  gay, 
Child  of  the  Cyclades 

And  of  Broadway — 

[106] 


Laughing  and  half  divine 

The  boy  began, 
Drunk  with  a  woodland  wine 

Thessalian : 
But  there  was  rue  to  twine 

The  pipes  of  Pan. 

Therefore  he  skipped  and  flew 

The  more  along, 
Vivid  and  always  new 

And  always  wrong, 
Knowing  his  only  clew 

A  siren  song. 

Careless  of  each  and  all 

He  gave  and  spent: 
Feast  or  a  funeral 

He  laughed  and  went, 
Laughing  to  be  so  small 

In  the  event. 

[1071 


Told  of  his  own  deceit 

By  many  a  tongue, 
Flayed  for  his  long  defeat 

By  being  young, 
Lured  by  the  fateful  sweet 

Of  songs  unsung — 

Knowing  it  in  his  heart, 

But  knowing  not 
The  secret  of  an  art 

That  few  forgot, 
He  played  the  twinkling  part 

That  was  his  lot. 

And  when  the  twinkle  died, 

As  twinkles  do, 
He  pushed  himself  aside 

And  out  of  view: 
Out  with  the  wind  and  tide, 

Before  we  knew. 

[108] 


THE  COMPANION 

Let  him  answer  as  he  will, 
Or  be  lightsome  as  he  may, 
Now  nor  after  shall  he  say 
Worn-out  words  enough  to  kill, 
Or  to  lull  down  by  their  craft, 
Doubt,  that  was  born  yesterday, 
When  he  lied  and  when  she  laughed, 

Let  him  find  another  name 
For  the  starlight  on  the  snow, 

[109] 


Let  him  teach  her  till  she  know 
That  all  seasons  are  the  same, 
And  all  sheltered  ways  are  fair, — 
Still,  wherever  she  may  go, 
Doubt  will  have  a  dwelling  there. 


[110] 


ATHERTON'S  GAMBIT 

The  master  played  the  bishop's  pawn, 
For  jest,  while  Atherton  looked  on; 
The  master  played  this  way  and  that, 
And  Atherton,  amazed  thereat, 
Said   "Now  I  have  a  thing  in  view 
That  will  enlighten  one  or  two, 
And  make  a  difference  or  so 
In  what  it  is  they  do  not  know." 

[mi 


The  morning  stars  together  sang 
And  forth  a  mighty  music  rang — 
Not  heard  by  many,  save  as  told 
Again  through  magic  manifold, 
By  such  a  few  as  have  to  play 
For  others,  in  the  Master's  way, 
The  music  that  the  Master  made 
When  all  the  morning  stars  obeyed. 

Atherton  played  the  bishop's  pawn 
While  more  than  one  or  two  looked  on; 
Atherton  played  this  way  and  that, 
And  many  a  friend,  amused  thereat, 
Went  on  about  his  business 
Nor  cared  for  Atherton  the  less; 
A  few  stood  longer  by  the  game, 
With  Atherton  to  them  the  same. 

[112] 


The  morning  stars  are  singing  still, 
To  crown,  to  challenge,  and  to  kill; 
And  if  perforce  there  falls  a  voice 
On  pious  ears  that  have  no  choice 
Except  to  urge  an  erring  hand 
To  wreak  its  homage  on  the  land, 
Who  of  us  that  is  worth  his  while 
Will,  if  he  listen,  more  than  smile? 

Who  of  us,  being  what  he  is, 
May  scoff  at  others'  ecstasies  ? 
However  we  may  shine  to-day,. 
More-shining  ones  are  on  the  way; 
And  so  it  were  not  wholly  well 
To  be  at  odds  with  Azrael, — 
Nor  were  it  kind  of  any  one 
To  sing  the  end  of  Atherton. 

[113] 


FOR  A  DEAD  LADY 

No  more  with  overflowing  light 
Shall  fill  the  eyes  that  now  are  faded, 
Nor  shall  another's  fringe  with  night 
Their  woman-hidden  world  as  they  did. 
No  more  shall  quiver  down  the  days 
The  flowing  wonder  of  her  ways, 
Whereof  no  language  may  requite 
The  shifting  and  the  many-shaded. 

[114] 


The  grace,  divine,  definitive, 
Clings  only  as  a  faint  forestalling; 
The  laugh  that  love  could  not  forgive 
Is  hushed,  and  answers  to  no  calling; 
The  forehead  and  the  little  ears 
Have  gone  where  Saturn  keeps  the  years; 
The  breast  where  roses  could  not  live 
Has  done  with  rising  and  with  falling. 

The  beauty,  shattered  by  the  laws 
That  have  creation  in  their  keeping, 
No  longer  trembles  at  applause, 
Or  over  children  that  are  sleeping; 
And  we  who  delve  in  beauty's  lore 
Know  all  that  we  have  known  before 
Of  what  inexorable  cause 
Makes  Time  so  vicious  in  his  reaping. 

[115] 


TWO  GARDENS  IN  LINNDALE 

Two  brothers,  Oakes  and  Oliver, 
Two  gentle  men  as  ever  were, 
Would  roam  no  longer,  but  abide 
In  Linndale,  where  their  fathers  died, 
And  each  would  be  a  gardener. 

"Now  first  we  fence  the  garden  through, 
With  this  for  me  and  that  for  you," 
Said  Oliver.— "Divine!"  said  Oakes, 
"And  I,  while  I  raise  artichokes, 
Will  do  what  I  was  born  to  do." 

[116] 


"But  this  is  not  the  soil,  you  know," 
Said  Oliver,  "to  make  them  grow: 
The  parent  of  us,  who  is  dead, 
Compassionately  shook  his  head 
Once  on  a  time  and  told  me  so." 

"I  hear  you,  gentle  Oliver," 

Said  Oakes,  "and  in  your  character 

I  find  as  fair  a  thing  indeed 

As  ever  bloomed  and  ran  to  seed 

Since  Adam  was  a  gardener. 

"Still,  whatsoever  I  find  there, 
Forgive  me  if  I  do  not  share 
The  knowing  gloom  that  you  take  on 
Of  one  who  doubted  and  is  done: 
For  chemistry  meets  every  prayer." 

[117] 


"  Sometimes  a  rock  will  meet  a  plough/1 
Said  Oliver;  "but  anyhow 
'Tis  here  we  are,  'tis  here  we  live, 
With  each  to  take  and  each  to  give: 
There's  no  room  for  a  quarrel  now. 

"I  leave  you  in  all  gentleness 
To  science  and  a  ripe  success. 
Now  God  be  with  you,  brother  Oakes, 
With  you  and  with  your  artichokes: 
You  have  the  vision,  more  or  less." 

"By  fate,  that  gives  to  me  no  choice, 
I  have  the  vision  and  the  voice: 
Dear  Oliver,  believe  in  me, 
And  we  shall  see  what  we  shall  see; 
Henceforward  let  us  both  rejoice." 

[118] 


"But  first,  while  you  have  joy  to  spare 
We'll  plant  a  little  here  and  there; 
And  if  you  be  not  in  the  wrong, 
We'll  sing  together  such  a  song 
As  no  man  yet  sings  anywhere." 

They  planted  and  with  fruitful  eyes 
Attended  each  his  enterprise. 
"Now  days  will  come  and  days  will  go, 
And  many  a  way  be  found,  we  know," 
Said  Oakes,  "and  we  shall  sing,  likewise." 

"The  days  will  go,  the  years  will  go, 
And  many  a  song  be  sung,  we  know," 
Said  Oliver;  "and  if  there  be 
Good  harvesting  for  you  and  me, 
Who  cares  if  we  sing  loud  or  low  ? " 

[119] 


They  planted  once,  and  twice,  and  thrice, 
Like  amateurs  in  paradise; 
And  every  spring,  fond,  foiled,  elate, 
Said  Oakes,  "We  are  in  tune  with  Fate: 
One  season  longer  will  suffice." 

Year  after  year  'twas  all  the  same: 
With  none  to  envy,  none  to  blame, 
They  lived  along  in  innocence, 
Nor  ever  once  forgot  the  fence, 
Till  on  a  day  the  Stranger  came. 

He  came  to  greet  them  where  they  were, 
And  he  too  was  a  Gardener: 
He  stood  between  these  gentle  men, 
He  stayed  a  little  while,  and  then 
The  land  was  all  for  Oliver. 

[120] 


'Tis  Oliver  who  tills  alone 
Two  gardens  that  are  now  his  own; 
'Tis  Oliver  who  sows  and  reaps 
And  listens,  while  the  other  sleeps, 
For  songs  undreamed  of  and  unknown. 

'Tis  he,  the  gentle  anchorite, 
Who  listens  for  them  day  and  night; 
But  most  he  hears  them  in  the  dawn, 
When  from  his  trees  across  the  lawn 
Birds  ring  the  chorus  of  the  light. 

He  cannot  sing  without  the  voice, 
But  he  may  worship  and  rejoice 
For  patience  in  him  to  remain, 
The  chosen  heir  of  age  and  pain, 
Instead  of  Oakes — who  had  no  choice. 

[121] 


'Tis  Oliver  who  sits  beside 

The  other's  grave  at  eventide, 

And  smokes,  and  wonders  what  new  race) 

Will  have  two  gardens,  by  God's  grace, 

In  Linndale,  where  their  fathers  died. 

And  often,  while  he  sits  and  smokes, 
He  sees  the  ghost  of  gentle  Oakes 
Uprooting,  with  a  restless  hand, 
Soft,  shadowy  flowers  in  a  land 
Of  asphodels  and  artichokes. 


[122] 


THE  REVEALER 


THE  REVEALER 


(ROOSEVELT) 

He  turned  aside  to  see  the  carcase  of  the  lion:  and  behold,  there 
was  a  swarm  of  bees  and  honey  in  the  carcase  of  the  lion  .  .  .  And 
the  men  of  the  city  said  unto  him,  What  is  sweeter  than  honey?  and 
what  is  stronger  than  a  lion?  —  Judges,  14. 


The  palms  of  Mammon  have  disowned 
The  gift  of  our  complacency; 
The  bells  of  ages  have  intoned 
Again  their  rhythmic  irony; 
And  from  the  shadow,  suddenly, 
'Mid  echoes  of  decrepit  rage, 
The  seer  of  our  necessity 
Confronts  a  Tyrian  heritage. 

[125] 


Equipped  with  unobscured  intent 
He  smiles  with  lions  at  the  gate, 
Acknowledging  the  compliment 
Like  one  familiar  with  his  fate; 
The  lions,  having  time  to  wait, 
Perceive  a  small  cloud  in  the  skies, 
Whereon  they  look,  disconsolate, 
With  scared,  reactionary  eyes. 

A  shadow  falls  upon  the  land,— 
They  sniff,  and  they  are  like  to  roar; 
For  they  will  never  understand 
What  they  have  never  seen  before. 
They  march  in  order  to  the  door, 
Not  knowing  the  best  thing  to  seek, 
Nor  caring  if  the  gods  restore 
The  lost  composite  of  the  Greek. 

[126[ 


The  shadow  fades,  the  light  arrives, 
And  ills  that  were  concealed  are  seen; 
The  combs  of  long-defended  hives 
Now  drip  dishonored  and  unclean; 
No  Nazarite  or  Nazarene 
Compels  our  questioning  to  prove 
The  difference  that  is  between 
Dead  lions — or  the  sweet  thereof. 

But  not  for  lions,  live  or  dead, 
Except  as  we  are  all  as  one, 
Is  he  the  world's  accredited 
Revealer  of  what  we  have  done; 
What  You  and  I  and  Anderson 
Are  still  to  do  is  his  reward; 
If  we  go  back  when  he  is  gone — 
There  is  an  Angel  with  a  Sword. 

[127] 


He  cannot  close  again  the  doors 

That  now  are  shattered  for  our  sake; 

He  cannot  answer  for  the  floors 

We  crowd  on,  or  for  walls  that  shake; 

He  cannot  wholly  undertake 

The  cure  of  our  immunity; 

He  cannot  hold  the  stars,  or  make 

Of  seven  years  a  century. 

So  Time  will  give  us  what  we  earn 
Who  flaunt  the  handful  for  the  whole, 
And  leave  us  all  that  we  may  learn 
Who  read  the  surface  for  the  soul; 
And  we'll  be  steering  to  the  goal, 
For  we  have  said  so  to  our  sons: 
When  we  who  ride  can  pay  the  toll, 
Time  humors  the  far-seeing  ones. 

[128] 


Down  to  our  nose's  very  end 
We  see,  and  are  invincible, — 
Too  vigilant  to  comprehend 
The  scope  of  what  we  cannot  sell; 
But  while  we  seem  to  know  as  well 
As  we  know  dollars,  or  our  skins, 
The  Titan  may  not  always  tell 
Just  where  the  boundary  begins. 


[129] 


JL*±    LJ£\.  A      LJOJi 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 

LOAN  DEPT. 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below,  or 

on  the  date  to  whi&kdaetJted^  b.  U 
Renewed  books  are  subject  to  immediate  recall. 

~r*    r   ~' 


OA^iftf  DO  •*** 

L^u> 

..     "                   -     J.VJ  -'J    ±  •- 

n—.  .•     n»>4  —  n  tf~h  

.AU61 


FEB 


REG' 


.Ml  2^66  -6  P 


OEU) 

,4fiC'fl:^j  j^.^ 

772  18 

.,,, 

J  1  ' 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


